A/N: Hey, y'all. Sorry I missed last Wednesday's update. TBH, I was feeling really down about the lack of reviews. Hoping it was just the holidays that were keeping people busy and not a lack of interest in the story/Devilishverse. I'll just go ahead and say it here: I've been working on another long story (like... an extremely long novel-length story that makes the other long ones look short lol) since right after finishing up The Devil's Cut, and I'd really hate for people to lose interest now while there's still so much to go. It's still quite a ways from being finished, but it is in the works and if I have to tantalize readers with something epic—well, I'm not above that. Also, yesterday was the one year anniversary of the first chapter of "Saving Grace" being posted. I don't know how that's even possible, but it made me :') And it's very apropos for this chapter/story. I'm kind of posting this in a rush, so once again I haven't proofread it thoroughly. I'll do that later tonight. Hope you guys are having a good start to the new year. Enjoy.

4. Far To Go

. . .

"Ma'am?" Olivia asked, glancing back around to find the woman was staring at her, not someone over her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine," the woman said hastily. She hid the book in her hands behind her back, as if she thought it might be confiscated should it remain in plain view. When Olivia followed the movement with her eyes, the woman uttered something partial and abrupt (it sounded like, "I have to . . . "), then turned to hurry away in the opposite direction. Her balance wasn't nearly as steady as the action required, and if not for Olivia and Amanda's sharp, synchronized reflexes, allowing them both to step up and catch her by an arm, she would have tumbled to the ground.

"Careful, careful." Olivia held the woman's hand and elbow, ensuring she found her footing before releasing them. She didn't look old and frail—on the contrary, her figure was rather robust—but she definitely moved like it. Olivia glanced sidelong at Amanda, making sure it was safe to let go, and caught a closer glimpse of the older woman's face. And just as suddenly as the other memories had been coming back to her lately, the past was standing right in front of her. Only this time it was flesh and blood, and they were holding hands. "Meg? Oh my God. Meg Hawthorne?"

For a long beat, the woman didn't respond, and Olivia wondered if she had mistaken her for the wrong person. But no. This was her mother's best friend and Olivia's surrogate aunt Margaret Hawthorne, no doubt about it.

Her lion's mane of black hair had been tamed into a thick, gray-streaked braid that draped over her shoulder, her brown eyes were boxed in by a pair of chunky red glasses, and she was about thirty pounds heavier than the last time Olivia had seen her (granted, that was sometime in the early eighties, and Olivia could say the same), but it was Meg nevertheless. Same bohemian style, with a shawl so long and wispy, Stevie Nicks herself would be envious; same regal posture, despite the unsteady gait. She even smelled the same, like something warm and toasted, a hint of spice, a dash of cream.

"Hello, Olivia," she said, and if that hadn't confirmed it, her impeccable diction and rich orator's tone would have brought it home. The years had been kind to her. She had to be in her mid-seventies by now, but looked more like sixty. Albeit a tired, abashed sort of sixty. "My goodness, look at you. Prettier than ever. Of course, you always were a beauty, but sakes alive, girl, save some for the rest of us."

"Babe?" Amanda said softly, her hand coming to rest at the small of Olivia's back. Their sweet spot, whether offering love, guidance, or protection.

Her wife sounded concerned, and Olivia realized she was frozen in place, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. She was almost shaking, though that was probably to be expected when you were looking at the person who had been your biggest ally and defender, your dearest confidant, and the closest thing to a real mother you ever had, up until your sixteenth birthday, when she walked out on you without an explanation. Or a goodbye. That seemed to be one of the major themes of Olivia's life story.

"Oh. I'm sorry." Olivia snapped herself out of the momentary daze and slipped an arm behind Amanda's waist, holding on tight. She had a strange, fleeting urge to hide behind Amanda altogether. "Sweetheart, this is my . . . my mother's friend, Meg Hawthorne. I haven't seen her since— oh, I'm sorry, is your last name still Hawthorne, or . . . ?"

God, she was babbling like an idiot in front of the person she used to confide in most, and the one she currently confided in more than she ever had anyone else. She felt like an awkward teenager again, caught in the middle; Serena still loomed in the background, as she did in every one of Olivia's childhood memories.

Olivia twisted her fingers up in the loose chambray of the shirt Amanda had stolen from her closet that morning. It was much too baggy on Amanda's small frame, and therefore extra adorable, especially with the snug leggings and Western ankle boots. Focusing on the familiarity and warmth of the woman by her side, she pushed away thoughts of the cold, unfeeling woman she was trying to leave behind.

"—hasn't changed," Meg was saying, her keen gaze drifting over to Amanda, intrigued. "Hawthorne I shall stay until . . . well, until I end up here, I suppose." She made an encompassing gesture of the cemetery, circling her hands around front and folding them over a copy of The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. "What about you? Do you still go by Benson? I . . . I heard you had married."

"You did?" Olivia couldn't keep the incredulity out of her voice or, for a split second, her expression. She wasn't minding her manners, as she had always been taught growing up, but she was still reeling from the encounter, and now, to hear that Meg, her beloved Meg for whom she was middle-named, had known she was alive, grown up, married, and hadn't reached out to her? It hurt, even thirty-eight years later.

"I saw the announcement in the Times," Meg said slowly, gently, as if breaking upsetting news to an eleven-year-old. That was how old Olivia had been when Meg picked her up from school and told her Serena was in the hospital after totaling their Gremlin while driving through an underpass. She was drunk, Olivia had declared—not mad, just so very weary—and Meg hadn't denied it. "The picture was . . . well, you're both so lovely."

The damn picture. Olivia hadn't wanted it, her track record with newspaper articles, media exposure, and surreptitiously-snapped photos not great. But Amanda had insisted a wedding announcement should include a picture so everyone could see what a hot babe she was marrying—and vice versa. Olivia couldn't argue with that logic, and it was true that they were the best-looking couple in the paper that day. With you on my arm, we're the best-looking couple wherever we go, gorgeous, was Amanda's suave reply, swatting Olivia on the ass with the rolled-up paper as they strolled away from the newsstand.

"Oh, right. I hadn't thought— I didn't realize you were still in the city to see it." Olivia heard the accusation the moment it was spoken, and she hurried on, hugging Amanda closer against her hip. "Meg, this is my wife, Amanda Rollins. And to answer your question, we go by Rollins-Benson now, everywhere except work."

"Amanda Rollins-Benson," Meg repeated, sounding like a minor player in a film meeting the titular character, with whom she was deeply impressed, for the first time. She shook hands with the same warmth and vigor she had as a much younger woman, the book tucked under her arm to clasp Amanda's hand in both of hers. It was how Olivia had learned a good solid handshake, a skill she carried with her to this day.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am." Amanda compensated for the customary I've heard a lot about you with a polite, dimpled smile. Despite being a significant part of Olivia's life for so many years, Aunt Meg had been reduced to a footnote in most of the childhood tales Olivia shared with her wife. Now she remembered why: it was too painful to think or talk about.

"Oh, listen to you. Ma'am." Meg patted the back of Amanda's hand, rattling her wristful of gold bangles. She hadn't lost her bohemian style in the intervening years, that was apparent. She was the one who had taught Olivia how to wear a bandana, how to mix prints (find a unifying color, pair different types and sizes of patterns, don't get crazy hon), and helped her collect enamel pins and slogan buttons to wear on her denim jacket. The thing probably weighed five pounds by the time they were done. Serena thought it looked ridiculous, but it had made Olivia the coolest girl in eighth grade for about two weeks. "Call me Meg. I even told my students to call me that. Dr. Meg if they absolutely insisted on formality."

"You made professor," Olivia said, careful to include the appropriate inflection this time. And it was good to hear. Meg had worked hard to earn her doctorate, finishing just a few months after Serena, only to be met by fewer job offers and twice the discrimination. Olivia had often been her shoulder to cry on. At times they'd seemed like equals, despite the age difference. "That's wonderful. Congratulations. I know how much that meant to you."

"Yes. Thank you, dearheart. But then, you always were my biggest little champion, weren't you?" A fond smile graced Meg's lips, laugh lines forming in the exact spots that had crinkled up whenever she chuckled in those days. Even back then she laughed like an aging bar matron who imbibed in all the worldly pleasures, and often. Once upon a time, it had been Olivia's favorite sound.

Meg reached for her now, as if no time had passed and Olivia was still the little girl with the unruly dark hair that needed smoothing every five seconds. It was Meg who had licked her fingers and tamed those flyaways and stubborn whorls, not Serena. Olivia's breath caught and she stiffened in anticipation of the touch, but Meg drew back at the last second, hand withering like a vine. She tugged her shawl over her shoulder as if she'd caught a chill.

Oblivious to the tension—or perhaps trying to distract from it—Amanda spoke up brightly, her curiosity piqued. "You knew her when she was real young then, huh? What kind of kid was she? I bet she was a bossy little stinker, wadn't she? Still is, right, Cap'n?" She nudged Olivia's hip with hers, winked.

Naturally, she was eager to hear cute, funny anecdotes about Olivia's past; most of what she knew already was sad and disturbing. During their trip to Georgia to visit Amanda's grandmother and great aunt, Olivia had heard so many childhood stories about her wife, she felt like she was falling in love all over again. And she'd felt guilty that she couldn't offer Amanda a similar experience. Now here it was, and she was terrified. What if Meg didn't have any good memories of her? What if she had just pretended to care about Olivia all those years?

"Oh, no. Not this sweet thing." Meg reached for Olivia's hand, this time making contact. She squeezed, a meaningful gesture to go with her meaningful gaze. It was hard to tell behind the thick lenses, but it looked as though her eyes were rimmed with tears. "She was always a little adult, even toddling around in those saggy diapers. You never saw a child so serious and well-behaved. But she had a silly side too, mind you. Remember when I dressed you up as Columbia, myself as Magenta, and we stole the show at Rocky Horror? You knew every single line. God, you were smart."

If that had ever really happened, Olivia didn't have a single recollection. She remembered going to the theatre frequently, sometimes with Meg, more often with Serena, who favored opera and ballet to the lowbrow art form of musical comedy. Had her fondness for Broadway shows come from Meg, she wondered briefly. She went as often as she could, and some of her happiest moments with the kids were taking them to see a big, splashy musical. Maybe all along she'd been trying to recapture the good childhood memories.

"Thought your mother would skin us both alive when she saw you in those striped hot pants," Meg added, shaking her head. "Mm-mmm, she was not happy with your old Aunt Meg that day."

That made more sense. In fact, Olivia did vaguely recall her mother screaming about a tarted-up eight-year-old in hot pants and tap shoes, but in that misty watercolor memory, she was facing Serena alone. There was never anyone else around when things got really bad between them. No father, no teachers, and certainly no old Aunt Meg.

"Why are you here, Meg?" she asked so bluntly that even Amanda seemed embarrassed, her blond head bowed in Olivia's peripheral vision. Olivia believed in respecting her elders too, it wasn't just a Southern custom; but she couldn't stand there listening to Meg reminisce about Serena's cruelty like it was an amusing personality quirk, either. Not today and not after the step she had just taken to extract herself from Serena's web, woven so intricately its fine silk threads were attached to every single corner of Olivia's life, every nook and cranny.

She already felt herself being pulled back in.

Gently Meg released Olivia's hand, returning it to her side like she was placing an injured bird back in its nest. She ought to know that if you touched one, the mother would reject it and the baby would die. "I came to visit your mother. I didn't realize— I wasn't sure if you still visited her or not. If I'd known you would be here . . . " She gazed around as if she were searching the grounds for the answer, then gave a helpless shrug and displayed the book in her hand. "I've been stopping by from time to time lately, bringing some of her favorites. I . . . I don't know why."

Olivia regarded the cover with a cool eye. It was the one she had seen on Serena's bookshelf half a million times, with the wistful-looking black girl holding a white baby doll. Before she read the novel herself, she had felt a connection to that girl. Then, in ninth grade, she checked out a copy from the public library—Serena's library was off limits—and discovered she had more in common with Pecola, the girl who wishes for blue eyes so she'll be pretty and loved, than she ever expected.

A few years later Olivia had gobbled up Morrison's newest novel Beloved, expecting another main character she related to, only to end up engrossed in the tale of a woman who kills her child and believes her house is haunted by the little girl. She'd mailed a copy from her dorm room to Serena's office at Hudson University with no return address (she considered adding a note: Read this and thought of you; didn't), but she never found the courage to ask if Serena had read it. She had the abortion shortly thereafter, and didn't feel quite so high and mighty about motherhood anyway.

"Jane Eyre," Amanda said, pulling the title from thin air. She pointed first to Meg's book, then swung her finger like the needle on a compass back to Serena's grave. "That was you. I was here a few months back and saw Jane Eyre propped up on the headstone. Wondered who left it there, but I . . . "

The rest dwindled off as she noticed Olivia watching, unable to hide her dismay that, no matter how roundabout the method, Meg had technically been in contact with Amanda for months. Radio silence for almost forty years, and then when Meg finally did reach out, it was to everyone else but Olivia. She felt sick at the revelation. She felt the same way she had when Cragen called her into his office and told her that her mother was dead.

"I must have just missed you," Meg was saying, her voice sounding distant, as if she were drifting away through a tunnel. "Paperbacks don't last long out here, but I can't in good conscience leave hardbacks to weather the rain and snow. Serena wouldn't stand for it. Her collection was pristine. Olivia, you rememb—"

"You didn't tell me that," Olivia said, just catching up to the conversation, her eyes on Amanda. She turned slightly, angling her body toward her wife and away from Meg, as though affording them some privacy. Even that small movement caused the pain in her head to flare from a dull pressure behind her sinuses to a skull splitting migraine, replete with its own fireworks display. Gasping, she clapped a hand over her eye and that side of her head, the one that was going to explode. Jesus Christ, it hit fast.

"Liv. What's wrong?" Amanda's voice was so tight Olivia felt it like a rubber band wrapped around the skull. Just the touch of her hands on Olivia's shoulders, holding her steady, was painful and constrictive. "Baby, what is it? You're scaring me, darlin'."

"I-I'm okay." Olivia cringed at the effort required just to speak, at the sheer volume of it in her ears, though she'd thought she was whispering. Someone had turned up the stereo in her head to full blast. And they were packing a set of subwoofers that would melt the faces of even the most hardcore heavy metal fans. "God. Ow. Migraine."

"Oh, honey." That was Meg, her hand resting on Olivia's back. She had almost pitched over and landed on her face simply by turning too quickly, and now here she was, helping guide Olivia to the bench at the edge of the cemetery, as if they had swapped roles as the doddering old lady. "Your mother used to get those, too, debilitating ones. I always hoped they'd pass you up. I suppose they have better medication now, but—"

Olivia gave a strained, humorless laugh, sinking onto the bench gradually with Meg assisting on one side, Amanda on the other. "Oh my God," she said weakly, shrugging their hands away—there were too damn many hands on her—and putting up one of her own, signaling for Meg to back off. "Please stop talking about my mother. I am nothing like her. I never was. That was always the problem, wasn't it? How can you love someone who's been conceived by a monster, right, Meg? That's what I remember. And I remember you going along with it and walking out on me right after that, so don't stand there and pretend you cared. You didn't love me any more than she did."

"Hey. Hey, darlin', you're not feeling like yourself." Amanda sat down on the edge of the bench, gliding her arm gently over Olivia's hunched shoulders. She leaned in close, murmuring in Olivia's ear. "Why don't I pull the Jeep around and take you on home?"

"My God," said Meg, so aghast it drew Amanda and Olivia's attention upward to her tragic face. For a moment, Olivia thought the migraine was playing tricks on her eyes, but no, Meg looked like she'd seen a ghost again, except this one made her unbearably sad rather than inspiring her to bolt. "Is that what you think happened? Oh, Livvy, no. All this time? Honey, no. I never stopped loving you. How could I? You were like . . . you were like my own daughter. My own flesh and blood. I've loved you since the day you came into this big old rotten world, and I'll love you until the day I have to leave it."

It was everything Olivia had always longed to hear, and somehow she was in Meg's arms then, weeping against her chest as the words reverberated in and around her like a lullaby, through her like electricity. Meg stroked her hair with the big, motherly hands she suddenly remembered as her safe place. Serena's hands were anger, terror, hatred, pain; Meg's were the deepest comfort Olivia had ever known, until they went away. Now they were of no more use to her than the memories recovered on Dr. Giacomo's couch. They were a childhood home revisited that left you empty and disappointed, unable to recapture the same feelings from youth.

Too late, she thought as her old friend soothed her. Much, much too late.

But, nearly forty years on, Meg hadn't lost her stubborn streak either. She patted Olivia's back soundly before holding her at arm's length and declaring, "You and I need to have a serious talk, baby girl. A long overdue one, by the looks of it."

. . .